


This Cinnamon Purgatory

by junes_discotheque



Category: Better Call Saul (TV), Breaking Bad
Genre: Crying, Gene's life is terrible and I am terrible and everything is terrible, Masturbation, Other, Sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-11
Updated: 2015-03-11
Packaged: 2018-03-17 08:55:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3523187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junes_discotheque/pseuds/junes_discotheque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I feel like part of Gene the Sad Cinnabon Manager’s morning routine is jacking off in the shower and crying." Gene has a bad day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Cinnamon Purgatory

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this tumblr post: http://woahdenkirk.tumblr.com/post/112800272010/i-feel-like-part-of-gene-the-sad-cinnabon
> 
> The first part of this was originally written as a response, and then it kind of ate my brain, and then it got sad, because there is literally nothing about Gene the sad cinnabon manager that isn't miserably depressing.

The water is scalding on the back of his neck, chasing away the bone-deep chill of the Nebraska winter, and Saul— _Gene,_ he reminds himself, ignoring the awful pang that hits every time he hears or thinks his new name—takes a deep, shuddering breath. He chokes on the steam a little and his eyes water from the burn.

Gene’s cock juts out, half-hard, as it always is these days when he wakes up. He thinks there might be something a little wrong with apparently getting off on his nightmares _._ Back before he was Gene, he’d always needed that small edge of danger to get hard, and it wasn’t unusual for him to come to memories of being forced to kneel in the desert while men with guns surrounded him. But these days the fear is something else entirely, a slow-burning anxiety that rips at him until there’s nothing left. Nothing but the cold grey skies and the stench of cinnamon that will never, ever wash out of his clothes or his car.

He braces one hand against the cold shower tiles and wraps the other around his cock. His ragged nails catch against his skin and though he tries to keep a steady rhythm with the dripping water, he's shaking too hard to do much more than jerk quickly and sloppily. He tries to think of nothing, tries to focus only on his hand and his dick and the burning shower water. He hates it when his mind wanders—

But it always does, eventually, back to the room where Saul vanished, back to the cuts and bruises and guns shoved in his face and bright shirts and brighter commercials, seeing his face on benches and buses… And then back farther, before even Saul, to a warm smile and blue eyes and blonde hair and late nights in the salon.

By the time he finally comes, cock trembling in his hand, Gene has fallen to the floor of his shower, and he can’t breathe. His tears mix with the rapidly-cooling water, and his body shakes uncontrollably as he gasps between sobs. He rubs at his eyes with the back of his hand.

Half an hour later, he sits in his idling car outside his apartment. His name badge is clipped to his shirt. His glasses are fogged. His hands don’t shake on the steering wheel.

The stench of cinnamon overwhelms him.

~ * ~

The first two hours behind the counter pass quickly enough. It's still horribly slow, and the music behind the counter clashes horribly with the music in the rest of the mall until it becomes one massive cacophony of pointless noise, but... it could be worse. _Has_ been worse. At least today, there are no ghosts sitting in the cramped dining space.

_At least._

There's always been something comforting, he thinks, about seeing a twenty-something kid in a bright, oversized hoodie, or a bald middle-aged man with a goatee and a green polo, or a grandfather-type who might have a gun hidden in his nondescript brown jacket, or...

Maybe it's comforting because all three of them are either definitely or probably dead, so other than the sudden, horrible feeling of his stomach plummeting into the floor, there's no danger in seeing them. Unlike Kim's ghost. Unlike the half-dozen guys he mistakes for feds or cartel or any one of about a dozen organizations who want Saul dead.

(They have no reason to go after Gene, he reminds himself—no one knows he's here— _no one knows he's here—_ but that doesn't stop him worrying. Doesn't stop him wishing, for a moment, for a second, that he's  _right._ Because if he's caught, he can be Saul again, and he can stop looking over his shoulder, and sure, he'll be either dead or in jail, but those don't sound as awful anymore. Too bad he's always been a coward.)

“Hey. _Hey._ ”

Gene looks up, blinks into the face of a pale, black-haired kid with a script tattoo on his neck and a couple dozen piercings. He's scowling, like he wants to be intimidating, but mostly just comes across as _cute._ The kid waves his cup in Gene's face.

“ _Refill,_ moron.”

“No free refills on Chillatas,” Gene mutters, and turns back to his blender.

The empty cup hits him square in the face and knocks his glasses askew.

“I said, _refill._ Are you stupid?”

Gene chews on his lower lip, straightens his back, peers at the kid. He crosses his arms and stares back,  _what are you gonna do about it?_ clear in his expression. He's trying to be threatening. It's almost  _cute._

“Listen here, you little _shit,_ ” Saul snaps. “Unless you grow another half a foot in the next three seconds, we both know you can't reach high enough to throw a punch, and you already threw your cup in my face. Now, maybe you have a knife or a gun, but I'm willing to bet you don't. And also, security? Right outside.” He jerks his head over at the Cellularis kiosk and the kid follows his gaze. The afternoon girl has just arrived, and, like clockwork, Brad has arrived on his Segway to say hello. 

The kid blanches.

“So. Get _out._ ”

Over by the oven, Lauren looks at him in awe. Gene gives her a small smile and a shrug as the kid scurries out. She drops the rag over her shoulder and tucks a bit of blonde-and-pink hair behind her ear.

“Damn. So does that mean next time some asshole gets on me, I can tell them to scram, too?”

“Sure,” Gene says. “Go for it.”

“ _Awesome._ ”

It shouldn't make him as happy as it does to have Lauren's approval. She's a sixteen-year-old high school sophomore. She works at the Cinnabon part-time to save up for a car. She has a crush on her biology teacher, and she thinks Gene is either a nerd or a creep depending on whether she's working an evening shift or a weekend shift. Gene, for his part, should definitely not care this much about what some sixteen-year-old girl thinks about him. 

But since nobody's thought he's anywhere close to awesome in months, he'll take what he can get. He's not exactly whistling to the mixer, but he does feel a little lighter as they go back to work.

~ * ~

Half an hour before his shift is about to end, the kid turns up again.

He has a woman with him.

“Excuse me. Are you the manager?” she asks. Gene nods slowly. “My son came in here earlier.” She places a hand on the kid's shoulder and raises her cell phone with the other. “I have your corporate office on the phone.”

“Ma'am, I don't—”

“Take it.” She shoves the phone in Gene's face. Tentatively, he takes it, and if his voice shakes when he says _Hello?_ it's only because he's _Gene._

~ * ~

The woman and her kid get a free Chillata each, and five $10 gift cards, and a  _sincere_ apology from Gene. Lauren, who was supposed to be off an hour ago but stuck around to help Gene clean out the mixer, watches the whole thing from the other end of the counter as she slowly cleans the display case. Gene can't even look at her. 

He keeps his head down as they finally,  _finally_ leave, silently finishing his closing duties. Lauren throws things around for awhile before she gives up trying to get his attention and bails without a word. 

~ * ~

Gene's down to the last few drops of scotch, vodka, and schnapps, so he dumps them all into a glass, stirs them with a couple ice cubes, and tries not to breathe too deeply as he sips. It's actually not that bad, but he's not sure he'd care if it was awful.

He spends about five minutes staring listlessly at the box that holds the VHS tape—all that's left of his old life—before deciding against watching it tonight. He downs the rest of his drink and crawls into bed. 

That night, he dreams Jesse showed up at the Cinnabon instead of the kid with the neck tattoo. Jesse shoves him to his knees, pushes a gun against his temple, and tells Gene that this is all his fault—if he—if  _Saul—_ had been stronger, he could've stopped all of this before it got to this point. And now look at him. Look how pathetic he is. Empires crashed around them both, and Saul crawled out from the rubble without even his name.

Behind him, Lauren files her nails and asks if this is going to take long. Saul looks at her, once, and when he looks back, Jesse is gone.

Walter White pulls the trigger.

~ * ~

Gene doesn't make it to the shower. He collapses on floor of his bedroom, knees scraping against the rough carpet. He shoves the heel of his hand against his crotch as his groans turn to sobs and he comes. He collapses on his arms and lies there, hand shoved between his legs, his come drying cool and sticky in his boxers, and the tears don't stop.

They don't stop until he pulls into the mall parking lot and Gene forces himself to calm down. To breathe. To get through it. Because what choice does he have?

~ * ~

Lauren brings him a baker's dozen of chocolate chip cookies.

They don't have a speck of cinnamon in them.


End file.
